


Posession

by Argyle



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Canon Compliant, Dracula Loves a Bit of Fur, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: There's nothing for it: Dracula will have his way.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 226





	Posession

There's nothing for it: Dracula will have his way.

Even as the sunset – the cold, clean _reflection_ of evening light off that damned peasant cross – slices into him, cleaves him, leaves him writhing on the ground—even as Jonathan sneers, "I am not...like...you," and tilts back over the balustrade, defiant to the last—

Even as Jonathan falls, Dracula knows he will yet have him.

Jonathan has kept his spirit, and Dracula can think of nothing but claiming it as his own.

He won't be denied.

But an hour or more passes before the sun has set and he can make his way down to the riverbank in search of his new bride. He's pulsing with anticipation at the thought of discovering Jonathan's wrecked body on the rocks. His newly minted _undead_ body: capable of recovering from even the most grievous injury... with enough blood, that is, plus a sufficient will of one's own.

And of course Dracula's resolve is also exceptionally strong.

He tastes the cool water. He sniffs the air. He scans the horizon, his vampiric vision as canny as a vivisectionist's knife as it peels back each layer of deepening gloom, searching, seeking. And yet by now, all traces of Jonathan Harker have gone.

Dracula is alone. And yet not at all by himself. He sucks in a lungful of cold air, tilts his head back, and then whistles.

It's a summons.

Far to the west, a wolf howls in reply. Another calls out from the south. And then more and more join in until their beastly chorus drowns out all other sounds. Beautiful.

Dracula nods, well pleased. "Soon, my dear. I will come for you."

*

The door to Jonathan's room is locked. But then again, no: it's more that the lock has been manipulated, the bolt carefully yet forcefully driven home, for of course Dracula hadn't left him the key. He smiles. "That's my Johnny," he says. "Ever resourceful." All it takes is a neat turn of his wrist to get the thing open.

And then, faintly pained, "Oh, my poor dear boy. What have you been getting up to?"

Jonathan has left the place in utter disarray. Bedlinens lay strewn across the floor, paintings hang at strange angles or slump broken from their hooks, and every piece of furniture sits askew, pulled out and away from the walls as if he'd been searching for something. But to what end?

If only Jonathan had waited—if only he'd let Dracula explain.

Dracula would have taken Johnny into his arms and given him _everything_.

Stupid, beautiful Johnny. Didn't he realize there was no escape?

With a sigh, Dracula sits down on the foot of the bed and flicks the cork from his bottle. Then he takes a swig. The blood is fresh enough... while not of the highest quality, he'll be the first to admit, it still manages to quench his hunger and temper his guts and singe his veins. He shivers. Yes. It's still _good_.

He tilts his head back and, free from the need to breathe, swallows down the lot.

Then he begins to strip out of his clothes. First the cloak – _Johnny's_ cloak, a lovely, weighty thing, all rich black wool and crimson interior brocade, which Dracula had pressed to his cheek and claimed for himself that very first night – and then his own neat jacket, shirt; boots and stockings; trousers.

He pauses for a moment, quiet and intent and utterly naked. And he waits. Listens. And yes, _there_ , still at a distance but growing ever closer to the castle gates, comes the clamor of his gathering army.

Delightful.

The creatures of the night are so eager to receive their master's word.

So ready to obey.

Dracula throws the wardrobe open and begins wrenching Jonathan's clothes from their hangers and dumping them onto the stone floor. Then he settles down onto the pile.

Jonathan's scent permeates everything. His sweat and his musk. His blood blotted sweetly here and there, stains of dark red on the ivory of his shirt collars, each spot the permanent evidence of Dracula's attention.

He presses his face into the fabric and breathes deeply.

Takes the last trace of Jonathan's humanity into himself and commits it to memory.

Drinks him in.

Oh, Johnny. Even in desolation, his body failing him, his spirit had been so deliciously strong, not like Dracula's other brides at all—

_"Give me your word. Look me in the eye... and give me your word."_

_"Count Dracula. I give you my word."_

And then he'd vowed to destroy him! What wit. What cheek.

He sucks in another breath. He's painfully hard. How could he not be? A peculiar sound – something between a moan and a growl – bubbles up from his chest. He spits into his palm and takes his pale cock in his fist, and then he begins to stroke.

How lovely it will be to have Johnny to himself—to keep him for all time.

He imagines fucking him. Taking him beneath the candelabras on the long table in the great hall, scrapping with him in the dirty crypt, drinking his blood atop a nest of fine white bedding.

And Jonathan will beg for Dracula's mercy. Again and again, he will beseech him: _"Please—"_

Dracula shudders. He's been working himself steadily, rocking forward into Jonathan's clothes to better keep his scent all about him. He grapples with a pair of Jonathan's tweed trousers. It's a struggle to find purchase... the rhythm is so perfect.

But it can't last. The orgasm rips through him, igniting every inch of his undead body, and he spills into his clawed hand. "Johnny, Johnny," he pants. "My Johnny."

_I am coming for you._

Then Dracula folds into himself. He tucks his knees and chin into his chest, covers his face with his arms and holds his head down.

There are no words. No secret incantations.

There's simply the _will_.

And within seconds, he begins to change: thick black fur sprouts out from his bare flesh; his teeth extend into sharp, canine fangs; his eyes close and then reopen, wide and unfathomably deep.

The sensation of his skeleton contracting and then stretching, _reshaping_ into something quite unlike that of a man is agonizing. Deliciously, exquisitely painful. Primal. And in all his centuries of existence, he's never wanted anything other than to drink it down and demand more.

Outside, the bats have begun to amass. The crows are heckling, half-mad. The wolves scratch at the gate, barking and yelping in delirious excitement.

Dracula's newly formed ears flick forward and back. He paws and noses once more through Jonathan's belongings. And he raises his huge black head to let out a howl: long and low and _old_.

_I am coming. I am coming._


End file.
